


From Hatred

by emavee



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Irondad, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Team Bonding, excessive use of dialogue, gotg feels, with a little bit of fluff sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 03:14:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emavee/pseuds/emavee
Summary: Nebula drags Stark to the battered Milano. She has to support some of his weight, and she does so begrudgingly. She uses his weight on her to remind herself of what Thanos had done to the universe.It gets worse when Stark starts feverishly rambling about the kid.





	From Hatred

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read on its own, or as a prequel to Coated in Ash

For a moment, Titan is silent.

 

Stark sits on the ground, his body decorated with the kid’s ashes, rocking back and forth slightly. Nebula simply stands there, her fingers twitching slightly as she stares at the horizon, knowing that the unthinkable has struck every planet in every solar system.

 

The anger that she’s long-harbored for her father has no more potential to grow. It has always consumed her, filled up every molecule of her body. She was made from and of hatred.

 

And yet, as she wraps her mind around what happened, she feels something else taking root in her veins. She didn’t know she was capable of anything but hatred, and here was grief, creeping through her like a virus, turning her mind to mush.

 

She tries to swallow it. She doesn’t need grief right now, she needs anger and hatred. She can’t let the end of everything change who she is.

 

She couldn’t afford to go soft—like Gamora and that idiot Quill. Look where their precious feelings got them. She’d thought Stark, the metal man, would be more like her, yet here he was crying. Even the hardest of shells could be cracked.

 

“Stark,” she says, and anger bites in her voice, because she finds comfort in the anger, and there’s plenty to be angry about when it comes to the metal man. The wizard had traded for Stark’s life, and now Thanos has won.

 

Stark doesn’t say a word. His eyes are closed, ash-covered hands pressed to his face. He’s gone so pale that she might think he were dead, were it not for the loud, ragged breathing that cuts through the air like daggers. It takes Nebula a moment to realize that they are not really breaths but escaping sobs.

 

She would never allow herself the luxury of crying, not when the universe needs her hatred.

 

“Stark,” she snaps again, this time clenching a hand roughly on his shoulder. “We need to leave.”

 

He pulls away from her and curls in on himself, ducking his head and holding his hands to his chest. “Leave me,” he rasps. “I’m dying anyways.” Then he nods, like his dying would be the only thing the universe has done right.

 

“You will not die,” she says, hauling him to his feet. “I will not allow it. If all these people are to die for your life, then you are going to help make things right.”

 

He stumbles, hands clenching his side and suddenly she realizes that he’s right—he actually is dying. The wizard may have foreseen Stark as an important part of ending Thanos, but visions of the future aren’t enough to stop the metal man from bleeding out.

 

She doesn’t want to help Stark heal. It takes too much energy, energy that she needs to channel into anger, not concern or sympathy.

 

But she feels, somewhere deep in what little is left of her soul, that if Stark dies, so do their chances of reversing this. And if half the universe stays dead, then Gamora’s death will actually mean something. Nebula doesn’t want Gamora’s death to mean anything. She died for Thanos, not of her own volition. She died for him, so he could “sacrifice” something, and Nebula doesn’t want that for Gamora. Gamora would rather die for nothing at all than for Thanos.

 

So Nebula drags a half-dead Stark to the battered Milano. She has to support some of his weight, and she does so begrudgingly. She uses his weight on her to remind herself of what Thanos had done to the universe.

 

It gets worse when Stark starts feverishly rambling about the kid.

 

She tried to get him to shut up, but it’s like he can’t hear her. Stark might not even know he’s talking. It’s all pain and blood loss and grief pouring out of him.

 

She’d carried his ass onto the mess of Quill’s ship. She probably should have stuck him on a cot, but she was worried that if she turned her back for two minutes, the man would keel over and die, and she couldn’t fly and keep him alive at the same time.

 

So, she’d deposited him in the co-pilot seat, reclined it as far as it would go, and buckled him in haphazardly.

 

She’d wanted to take a look at his wound—at least do something to bandage it—but he waved her off.

 

“Don’t bother,” he’d slurred. “Got m’ nanites. They’re keepin’ the blood in.”

 

Nebula just grunted in response and took off, desperate to get away from the dust and ruin of Titan.

 

And for a while, they flew in silence. It was good. It let Nebula stew.

 

_He killed Gamora. Now, you'll kill him._

 

Then Stark starts talking. Why can’t he just pass the hell out?

 

“Where are we going?” Stark asks, trying to sit up. She reaches over with one hand and pushes him back down.

 

“Terra,” Nebula grunts. “At least one of the morons that owns this ship must be alive, because I tracked them there. That’s your planet, so I assume you can get yourself some medical attention there. I can’t do anything for you, unless you want to be more metal than you already are.”

 

“Sure, sure,” he says. He starts laughing deliriously. “Last time I was injured like this,” he continues, “the kid freaked.”

 

Nebula cracks her jaw, listening to it mechanically click in and out of place, determined not to respond. He must be talking about the boy from Titan. He keeps going.

 

“I invited him on the mission,” Stark rambles, “because I thought it wouldn’t be very dangerous. It should have been good experience for him, but he wouldn’t get hurt, you know?”

 

She does not know. Never in her life has she been safe. Never has she gained experience without pain. She feels a strange, foreign emotion for the dead boy.

 

“But the guy had some sort of EMP,” Stark says. “Knocked me right out of the sky. Of course, I was fine, just a few broken ribs, but the comms went dead and Pete went nuts.” He let out a wet cough. “When we reunited—it had only been like half an hour—he hugged me for like twenty straight minutes. Tackled me to the ground. I think he broke another rib, but I didn’t care. Kid didn’t have a scratch on him, and that’s all that matters.”

 

“I don’t think that is the same level of injury, metal man,” Nebula replies. “That was broken bones, this is a potentially fatal stab wound.”

 

Stark lets loose a humorless laugh. “Nah, I won’t die. The damn universe won’t let me.”

 

“Me neither,” Nebula says. Even though everything in the world had been screaming for years that Gamora was the strong one, it had taken her and left Nebula alive. Just one twist in a long line of cruel fates.

 

“He was so worried about me getting hurt,” Stark continues his delirious story, as if they hadn’t just compared the nihilistic reality of their existences. “He broke the guy’s nose for me.”

 

Nebula’s never been scared for someone else’s life before. The only thing that came close was when Thanos dragged her away to find the soul stone, but even then, she never thought the monster could kill the daughter he favored so. She’d been stupid to think Gamora couldn’t die.

 

Gamora had felt that fear before, for that moron Quill. Before Nebula had gone off on her own, she’d been dragged along on one of their stupid missions. Sort of. She’d stayed on the ship and ate soup with the tree while the others went to go play heroes. She wasn’t even sure what the details were, since she hadn’t cared, but a few hours later, they were taking off in a hurry, Gamora supporting a bleeding Peter Quill.

 

There’d been an explosion, and Quill was a mess of shrapnel. Gamora was more emotional that she’d ever seen her—apparently Quill had pushed her out of the way and took the brunt of the damage.

 

Nebula had eaten her soup and silently figured the Terran would die. They were quite soft and weak, after all.

 

That night, she’d found Gamora sitting up by herself, listening to Quill’s music.

 

_“It’s my fault,” Gamora whispered, pausing the music and turning to look at Nebula. “He’s always doing stupid stuff for me. Why does he keep doing that?”_

_“Because he’s an idiot,” Nebula said. It was supposed to be comforting. She was agreeing with her sister about Quill being stupid. They were sharing emotions and all that._

_But Gamora just looked closer to tears. “We_ jus _t saved him, and now he’s dying all over again. Why does he keep doing this? For me? He shouldn’t be dying for me.”_

_Well, that was stupid. Gamora was much better than Peter Quill. It was a worthy sacrifice._

_At least she had the decency to keep that to herself. It may have been a foreign emotion to her, but she could see the pain written all over Gamora’s face, no matter how hard she may have tried to hide it._

_“Hopefully he won’t die, then,” Nebula said instead._

_Gamora nodded. “I won’t let him,” she said. “I need to go see him.”_

_“He’s sleeping,” Nebula called after her as she ran off towards where Quill lay bandaged and unconscious._

_“I won’t let him die,” she heard Gamora murmur._

The most Nebula had done during that particular injury was call the raccoon over when Quill bent down to pick up the bowl he dropped and popped a stitch.

She doesn’t share that story with Stark. Something about it doesn’t seem fitting.

 

“He thanked me for not dying,” Stark says. “Who does that? Peter. Peter does that. He thanked me for everything, no matter how many times I told him that it was no trouble. If he’s not thanking me, he’s saying he’s sorry.”

 

Nebula could count on one hand the number of times she’d been thanked.

 

_Thanos, when she was seven-years-old, thanking her for “understanding” the first time he had a part of her torn apart and replaced with cold machinery._

_Proxima Midnight, when she was ten, thanking her in her biting tone for being the weakest of their father’s children, and making sure that, no matter what any of the rest of them did, they would never be as much of a failure as her._

_Gamora, when she was fourteen, after Nebula passed her sword to her before they fought._

_Quill, after they killed Ego and she shared her regrets about the Ravenger captain’s passing._

_Mantis, on Titan, thanking her for calling the Guardians in to help. And again, when Nebula vouched for the empath’s abilities when Stark seemed to doubt her._

Stark had fallen silent. She spares him a glance, only to find him half curled in on himself, dust-covered hands gripping the armrests of the seat with white knuckles.

 

“He apologized as he died,” Stark gasps. “It’s the last thing he said to me. I’m the one who failed _him_ , and he apologized.”

 

Nebula cracks her metal wrist a few times and mentally debates speaking.

 

“One time," Nebula finally says, "Quill apologized because I couldn’t get drunk and he could." She’s desperate to stop reliving the boy’s death. For some reason, it strikes a chord in her on keys she didn’t know existed. Maybe it’s because this boy had the love and support she’d craved her entire life. How ironic it is that he died while Nebula lives on in agony.

 

Stark cracks an eye open, watching her with a gaze that doesn’t quite focus. She takes it as a hint to continue.

 

“The Guardians,” she says, “they were celebrating. It was some holiday in Drax’s culture, so they had a party. It was purely coincidence that I was even there visiting. They got trashed—all of ‘em except the little tree. Good thing the galaxy did not need any guarding that day, because they’d have better luck calling a hoard of _gthoraks_.”

 

Neither of them laughs at Nebula’s attempt at humor.

 

She continues anyway. “Quill was blasting his ridiculous music and screaming all the words. I thought I was going deaf. The only reason I didn’t smash his stupid little music box is because Gamora was singing, too. She had a much better voice than him, although her dance moves were somehow worse, which is saying something, because Quill moves like someone dropped a worm in his pants.

 

"The fox built replicas of all his friends out of junk he found around the ship, and Drax was conversing with them as if they could respond. Mantis and the tree boy made a fort, and then she passed out in it. They actually all ended up passing out in it, except Quill.”

 

With a deep breath, she says, “He was the last one awake with me. He walked over, finally not singing for once, and asked if he could get me another drink. Said I clearly wasn’t enjoying the party as much as everyone else. I told him I couldn’t get drunk. I thought it would make him go away.”

 

She swallows hard. “Instead, he sat down next to me and apologized. Said he couldn’t imagine going through what I’d been through and not being able to erase it all with alcohol.

 

“No one had ever apologized to me before, except Gamora. No one had ever apologized to me about something so small. My inability to get drunk wasn’t Quill’s fault, but he apologized. I suppose there’s something about Terrans that makes them apologize for things they don’t need to.”

 

“One time Peter got drunk,” Stark mumbles. Nebula glances over at him. She’s surprised to hear him say that—even Quill and the raccoon had been smart enough to not let the sentient tree child drink. Stark’s kid certainly seemed too young to be drinking. Was it possible that Stark was less of a responsible adult than a talking raccoon?

 

“He didn’t mean to,” Stark adds hastily, and Nebula finds herself nodding. He chuckles halfheartedly. “After that spider bit him, peppermint started doing funny things to him. Spiders don’t do peppermint.”

 

Nebula has no idea what a spider is. She doesn’t ask.

 

“I got Pepper these mint brownies that she loves for her birthday party, and I knew the kid would eat half a pan all on his own, so I got an extra batch just for him. He ate like nine brownies before I noticed something was up. Luckily, peppermint isn’t poisonous for him. Unluckily for me, since his aunt thought I was at least somewhat a responsible adult, it makes him loopy. Pepper thought he somehow got into pot brownies.

 

“But Peter would never do that. He’s a good kid. He was. He was a really good kid.” Stark’s voice is cracking, and Nebula can hear them spiraling dangerously into feelings territory. “God, he—he didn’t deserve this.”

 

“Was your Pepper mad that you got him drunk?” Nebula asks quickly.

 

“A little, at first. But it was probably for the best that he found out surrounded by responsible adults instead of alone in—in college.”

 

Stark gags. She can’t look at him. She doesn’t want to see his grief. It’ll just make hers worse.

 

“He—he kept running around on the damn ceiling,” Stark says. “And he made up a theme song for himself. He sang it to anyone who would listen. He tried to make one up about me too, but I shut that down quick. I put him to bed, like a responsible adult, told his aunt what happened, and threw out all the peppermint in the compound.

 

"When Christmas rolled around, he was really upset, because he loves Christmas desserts. I got these sugary raspberry-flavored candy canes instead of peppermint, and he was so happy. He even put them in his hot chocolate like he used to do with the mint ones. It sounds disgusting, and it made him bounce off the walls, but I don’t regret it. It made him happy.”

 

And just like that, the happy memory turns decidedly sad. She wonders if Stark will ever be able to think about the kid’s smile without it turning to ash in his mind.

 

She wonders if she’ll ever be able to think of Gamora again without every piece of her aching with loss.

 

“He was supposed to be seventeen next month,” Stark whispers. “It was gonna be the second birthday of his I got to celebrate. I didn’t do so well last year. Went way overboard. This year was going to be perfect. Me, his aunt, his little nerd friends, Rhodey—just a little get together. That’s what he said he wanted. The people he cared about, being together. Now I’ll never—I’ll never— I was gonna give him the new suit. He died in that suit.”

 

“I’ve only ever celebrated one birthday,” Nebula says.

 

“I made it to keep him safe,” Stark says, as if she never spoke. “I wasn’t enough.”

 

“It was Mantis,” she continues. “She actually insisted that I stay and celebrate with them. I didn’t know the day of your birth was a thing people celebrated, but Quill thought it would be a good way to indoctrinate her into their gang of idiots. He planned everything like they would on Terra. I watched Quill and Drax make a cake. It started burning when they weren’t paying attention, but I didn’t say anything. Quill mentioned lighting the cake on fire, so I figured that was what it was supposed to do. Gamora was so mad at me for not saying anything. How was I supposed to know? I’ve never had a cake.

 

“Anyway, they all took turns saying gross, nice things about Mantis. I didn’t expect to have to say anything, since I’m not one of them, but then they were all looking at me. I… I ended up telling her that I thought she was one of the strongest people I’d ever met, and I was impressed with how she fought back against Ego after he’d raised her.

 

“She was more like me than she acted. Ugh, the others wouldn’t stop looking at me funny all night. A lot of them smiled at me, and Quill did some weird thing where he pressed his fist against my fist. Mantis tried to hug me. She was really understanding when I didn’t want to do that. That was… strange, but kind of nice.”

 

She looks over at Stark. Somewhere while she was telling her story, he’d passed out. He didn’t look good. His breathing is ragged and shallow, and blood has leaked out of his armor, pooling slightly in the chair. What little of his skin isn’t stained with blood and dirt and the kid’s ashes is colorless and grey.

 

Terra isn’t too far now. “You better not die yet, metal man,” she growls. “Your job’s not done.”

 

“I’m not dead,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. “I’m not dead. Not everything dies. Sometimes there’s good in the world.”

 

She stares at him. Slowly, he blinks his eyes, his forehead creasing with a frown. His gaze is glassy, and she’s not sure he knows where he is. He certainly doesn’t sound like it.

 

“One time,” he says, his voice hoarse and cracking, “I helped the kid hide a stray dog in the compound.”

 

“What’s a dog?” she asks, partially out of curiosity, partially to figure out if he could hear her.

 

“He found the thing while he was on patrol,” he says. It’s not an answer to her question. “Pepper would never allow that dirty thing to stay in our home, but the kid was so broken up about it that I couldn’t say no.

 

“When she caught us, and said it had to go to a shelter, Pete freaked. He—he kept talking about how no one was going to adopt it, because it was old and a little grey and walked with a limp. He was practically in tears, said the thing was going to die because no one wanted it. No one wanted a dog like that, and no one was going to adopt it just out of the kindness of their heart.

 

“I don’t think there’s any good left in the world anymore. Peter was the best person I knew. If he’s gone, then what could possibly be left?”

 

Nebula doesn’t argue. Gamora was better than her. And Quill, Drax, Mantis—they were, as hard as she found it to admit—good, well-meaning people, who wanted to help. They were annoying imbeciles, but they truly tried to do some good things for the people of this universe.

 

They were better than Nebula, too.

 

It’s quite possible that everything good was dead.

 

Stark’s still talking. He wavers in and out of unconsciousness, rarely seeming like he knows where he is or what’s going on.

 

The things he’s saying don’t make much sense to her. He talks of people she doesn’t know and Terran customs she can’t hope to understand, and sometimes he passes out in the middle of a story and wakes up telling a different one.

 

What can be said, though, is that he has no shortage of things to say. His fever-addled mind is a library overflowing with memories that spill out of him with each pained breath. He has so many, and each of them are filled with more emotion than Nebula had ever let herself feel.

 

Her own stories aren’t like his. They’re short recollections of brief moments that maybe didn’t mean much to the people she shared them with. But she was starting to realize that they did mean something to her.

 

_Anger, anger, anger. Hate, hate, hate. Revenge. Don’t get soft. Don’t feel—_

God damnit, Stark.

 

“I want more stories,” she says aloud, thinking Stark is out again.

 

“They just die,” he says. She doesn’t know if he’s even talking to her, but he’s looking at her for once, and it’s possible this is one of his short bursts of coherency. “Everything I love dies.”

 

“I already told you, metal man, you can reverse this.”

 

“Doesn’t matter,” he groans. “It won’t last. I don’t want more stories. They just die and then they hurt. You don’t want stories, blue. The hurt isn’t worth it.”

 

For a moment, she’s silent. Is he right? It already hurts so bad, having lost Gamora, and that’s just one life that she’s mourning. Well, maybe more if she dared include the other Guardians, but still, she knows that her hardened heart has protected her from the same grief Stark is carrying, and less she is a mourner, the more she is a warrior.

 

So why does this stupid, selfish piece of her yearn for something else?

 

“I don’t think that’s true, Stark,” she says finally. “I’ve lived so much of my life feeling empty. I wish now that I had something more within me. I am too close to the way Thanos wanted me. I do not care if he thinks he’s taken everything from me—he hasn’t. I will make more stories, Stark, and so will you, and we will prove to the universe that we are capable of happiness.”

 

She chances a glance at Stark, only to find him unconscious in his seat.

 

“I will get you to your friends, Stark,” she says. “And then you will save the universe, and I will make happy memories. One last fight, Stark. That is all I ask. One last fight. Then I will make new stories.”


End file.
